


Nothing Will Be As Before

by feuillyova



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Female Jehan, Feuilly and Jehan have minor but important roles in this as well, Gen, Holocaust Reference, One-shot from the larger AU, Resistance AU, WWII AU, reference to war violence but not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 03:05:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4903132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feuillyova/pseuds/feuillyova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A one-shot from my larger AU, "The Last Wasted Generation." Stories of the last months of WWII; stories of the Liberation. They started the war together, but when peace comes, Enjolras and Combeferre are countries apart. It will take them some time just to learn that the other has survived.</p><p>Written as part of a fic/art collaborative project with Oilan. Oilan's art can be found here: http://oilan.tumblr.com/post/130197162918</p><p>The title is taken from the song "Sunday After the War" by Daniel Kahn and the Painted Bird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Will Be As Before

July 1944:

 

“Fifteen minutes to the site!”

The pilot’s shout was muffled over the engine’s roar.

Enjolras nodded. He checked over his helmet and his parachute harness once more, before settling back, looking out the small plane’s window at the view. The mountains they were flying over were lush and green. They must have entered Czechoslovakia – what had been part of Czechoslovakia, anyway – now that Tiso’s Slovakia[1] he supposed – some time ago.

He wondered if he’d been in this spot before. He remembered going on trips up into the Carpathians as a boy, though of course he had never seen them from this angle. Soon enough, though, he’d be down there himself. And despite the danger, despite the urgency of the task at hand, the contacts he would have to make immediately, and despite the little he knew – the little anyone had been debriefed about the situation on the ground, he was still so very glad to be returning home. His country had much changed since he had left it, but it was always – and would always be his home, and soon, he knew, it would be free.

Still, it was strange to be returning like this. Not the reason why, perhaps; it was the struggle that had taken him away, close to ten years ago now, and it only made sense that it would be the struggle that would bring him back. But it was strange to be returning alone, with neither the friends he had left with nor the comrades he had met along the way. He supposed the five other men in his team were comrades too; he liked them, though he did not yet know them well. But with the approach in sight, he thought of those who were now so far away, those with whom he had begun his journey as an activist. He thought of Combeferre, his best friend since childhood. He thought of Courfeyrac and Bahorel, too, by whose side they had fought in Spain. He thought of others, those he had met in the Communist Youth and those he had met later, those who were in France now, and those who were in the Soviet Union; those who could be anywhere, scattered on the winds, and those who had already – and long ago now – found their final home, buried in Spanish soil.

Again and again, however, his thoughts kept returning to Combeferre.

Enjolras had had no word from his friend for nearly three years now, since they had last met in a Paris train station. Combeferre had worn a large hat to cover his features.  He’d offered to stay until Enjolras’s train had pulled out of the station, but they both knew it wasn’t worth the risk, though they both very much wished he could have. Still, a quick goodbye and that was that, and he had no idea when he would ever see him again.

Was Combeferre still in France? Were the others? They must be. Enjolras was one of the last to have made it out of France to the Soviet Union.

What was the struggle like for them there? There’d been so little news. Yet he could imagine the risks they faced in an occupied country, striking what blows they could against an enemy which so outnumbered them, whose weapons were only unmatched by their ruthlessness.

Working briefly at a press agency in Moscow, Enjolras had gotten reports of martyrs in the Czech lands. Sometimes – rarely – the reports came with names. The same was true for those who reported on France. He hadn’t heard any mention of his friends – and he supposed he ought to be thankful for that, but he couldn’t extrapolate anything definite from it, either.

The war was, at long last, finally approaching its end, and there was now no doubt which side would be victorious. But when that day finally arrived, who among them would still be standing?

_If they’ve fallen, it would have been fighting for the cause. They would have died well._

The images which flashed through his mind, however, were not nearly so consoling: blindfolded bodies against wooden posts. He couldn’t bring himself to imagine faces; he pushed the mental images away without stopping to examine them. This was not the way to be thinking. Well, but all things considered, he was about to be parachuting into enemy territory himself. There was no telling that he’d see the end of the war, either.

 _They’d understand the same things, if_ I _were to die before this is all over._ Enjolras told himself. _They know it would have been for something that mattered. They’d know it was worth it._

They wouldn’t learn until it was done, of course. As, he supposed, would he, if the opposite were to come to pass. Yet somehow it was easier to imagine his own death than that of his friends.

The urge came to him, not new but stronger than ever now, to write Combeferre a letter. There would be no way to send it, no safe address, nor any time to do it in. Still, he could carry it on his person – well, but he knew that he couldn’t. The only identity papers he had with him now were false ones; the letter would be too much of a liability if he was ever searched.

But … _He knows everything I’d want him to already, even if I don’t survive,_ Enjolras told himself, and that was indeed reassuring in its way.

 

“Three minutes to deployment,” the pilot now called. Brought back to the present, Enjolras checked over his equipment once more and readied himself for the jump.

 

 --- 

May 1945

 

On the radio, they were giving updates every hour. Newspapers were filled with fresh details each morning, and boys in the streets were selling supplements, too, throughout the day. The newsreels that played before movies – if anyone had any time to go to the pictures now – must be out of date before they even aired. And still somewhere, everywhere, there was an acquaintance who’d just heard something new. Rumors were thick in the air, yes, but much was soon confirmed as accurate. The energy of the moment almost reminded Combeferre of the Paris insurrection, of their own moment of Liberation. Well, except that this time, all the street fighting was happening far away.

Most of the news was about the Allies’ march towards Berlin, of course. But Prague had also risen up, since the 5th, and Combeferre was seeking out every report on his hometown he could find. The result was a foregone conclusion; in days, perhaps hours, Soviet or American forces would enter the city and the Germans would be routed. All knew that. For more specific information, however, he’d have to wait until normal communications were reestablished, and that would take longer. But he’d had no news for so long!

How was his family doing? What of the friends and acquaintances he had left behind? Had they all made it through? Would he even recognize the neighborhood he’d grown up in, if he saw it now, or in six months’ time?

_Still. Six months’ time?_

It had been so very long since Combeferre had been able to think, even to hope, in such concrete terms. The way the war would end had been clear for quite a long time; for more than half a year, the Germans had been gone from Paris. Bahorel and Courfeyrac were even back from the front in Alsace now. Combeferre hadn’t gone with them – he had been asked to stay in Paris, to help organize refugee services and medical care there. For the first time in years, he could meet with his friends freely, could discuss events openly, could speak his native tongue in the streets if he wished. But though he knew that victory would come in a matter of days, and he knew that the things he now realized he really wanted to know wouldn’t be clear for some time – not only proverbial but literal dust would have to settle – he found that he was short on patience, so very tired of waiting. There was nothing he _could_ do but wait, now, and he hated it.

It had been so long since he’d heard from Enjolras.

Where was Enjolras now, he wondered. Was he still in Moscow?

That’s assuming he’d even made it to Moscow in the first place. But Combeferre had refused to dwell on that question back in ’41 and he was not going to ponder it now. Knowing Enjolras, however, he was not in Moscow now, not if he’d had any choice in the matter. Was he with the troops marching on Berlin? Or had he managed to return to Czechoslovakia? Maybe he was there, the head of a partisan unit or organizing civilian defense in Prague at this very moment.

Then again, maybe he wasn’t.

So far, this had been a year of reunions. They’d been incredibly lucky. So many had made it through the war. They’d made it through the dark winter of ’43 and the bloody summer of ’44. Courfeyrac and Jehan had come back from the south; Combeferre and Bahorel had returned from the north, and Feuilly had made it through the entire war in Paris. And even some who they’d feared were lost had come back. A few weeks ago, Joly and Bossuet had returned from deportation – tired, Joly was ill, and they were so very thin, but now they were in Paris again and they were slowly recovering. Joly’s wife, Musichetta, and Bossuet’s too, in a manner of speaking, had been among one of the first to return, several days before. The three of them were staying with her parents now; Combeferre was over frequently as well, glad, as time passed, that their condition seemed to be stabilizing, and he could provide just simple company.

 

Feuilly had been the one to run into them, waiting at the Hotel Lutetia[2] as he did for hours each day now, taking his work with him, but mostly talking to new arrivals and checking lists, hoping that – everyone knew what he was hoping for. He’d had no luck yet, but Combeferre told himself that once the war was really over this would change. The floodgates would open.

Wouldn’t they?

           

“Do you think you’d know if something had happened to him?”

This had been Jehan’s question. She’d asked it earlier in the day; Combeferre hadn’t meant to talk about Enjolras, about his hopes and fears, but she’d known something was troubling him, and Combeferre had found that in fact he’d wanted to talk.           

She’d explained that sometimes she’d had such feelings. There’d been times, during the Occupation, when she’d had a scheduled meeting but the other person hadn’t shown up, and sometimes she already knew that something awful had happened, hours or days before she got news of an arrest, of an attack gone wrong. But she also had had faith throughout the war that her parents were all right. She wasn’t close to them; they’d never been close, and as far as Combeferre knew they’d only talked the once since the Liberation. But, and though she’d worried, in her heart of hearts she knew they’d make it out okay, long before she would learn that this was indeed the case.

Combeferre thought this over. He was also fairly sure that his own parents had made it through. There was less risk to them as noncombatants, after all, or there should have been, though who knew with a war like this, after Lidice, after Oradour-sur-Glane, … [3

Still, he worried more about Enjolras. His friend would be in the thick of things, wherever he was, assuming he could be. This was a war they’d started together; Combeferre supposed he’d only assumed they would finish it together, too. And maybe, in six months’ time, there’d be a happy reunion, but maybe there wouldn’t be.

He lay restless in bed, a real bed, in a quiet and peaceful room, acutely aware of those who still had neither, and he pondered the question. How much easier things would be if Jehan were right! Could Combeferre take that feeling in his gut, this intrinsic insistence that his oldest friend were alive and well as proof that this was indeed the case? Yet one could run the odds, too, and one still wouldn’t know, not from here, not with the limited information they were getting. Was there such a thing as premonitions, beyond wishful thinking, beyond anxious fear? How many times had Jehan worried herself sick over a missed meeting, only to have the person show up the next day, and she’d forgetten how sure she’d been of tragedy?  As for her family, they had stayed in the south; they had money and connections, and perhaps advance notice, too, and could go underground. They’d had more chances of avoiding deportation than Feuilly’s folks had had, and in the end, they were lucky.

Combeferre thought of Feuilly, waiting every day for news of his family. What did he know, other than that he very much wanted them back, and soon, and yet he feared they’d never return? He knew they very well might not.

All Combeferre knew now was what he hoped and what he feared. Only time would bring truth.

Sitting up, he switched on a light and reached for a file. There really wasn’t long to wait now. Still, he was clearly not going to be able to sleep tonight, so he might as well do something productive.

 

\--- 

July 12th, 1945

 

Comrade Section-Chief of External Communications: 

Dear Comrade,

I am writing to ask if anything is known of the means of contacting Czechoslovak citizen and party member Radoslav Combeferre (“Olivier Holub,” “Thomáš Martin,”) or anything about his whereabouts. I last saw him in Paris in 1941; perhaps the local party has his information?

Please kindly pass along this message to them. They – or he himself – may contact me through the address given above or through official channels. With deepest thanks and,

Fraternal salutations,

Jan Enjolras

 

\--- 

September 6th, 1945

 

Télégramme

Origine : Tchécoslovaquie, Prague

Heure : 10h17

Combeferre: so glad to write your name so glad you are well. I am well. Great things are happening. There is position for you if you want it. Come home.

Enjolras

 

 ---

Combeferre had already been making plans for a visit back to Prague when Enjolras’s telegram reached him. He’d been wondering what came next. There was still work to do, reorganizing public health and resettling refugees in Paris, but there were French comrades eager to take that on, and the French Party seemed only keen to encourage that shift.  His mother had asked him when he was coming home, when he’d finally been able to write; she meant for good, and Combeferre was also thinking that this would be for the best. His friends were mulling over their options, too, and he’d never expected his stay in France to be anything more than temporary. So he’d already planned to go back, to see his family, to look for old friends, and to check in with the new authorities to see where his services might be needed.

Immediately upon receiving the message, he went, withdrew the necessary funds, and bought his ticket, then sent a simple response. “On my way – arriving on the 20th. Very glad to see you.” Only then did he tell the others that his choice had been made.

He didn’t feel very conflicted. He figured most of the others would decide the same in time. And he knew where he was needed, and where he wanted to be.

The ride was long, sometimes smooth, sometimes not. In places, the train tracks were still out, replaced by buses on bumpy, dirt roads, and often, he had to show his passport. It was still a new thing to show his real passport, to expect this, not to seek to avoid it. His heart would still pound at such moments, his breaths grow short, but when they weren’t going through a checkpoint he was calm. He read the daily papers and some scientific journals; he even had time to finish a novel.

By turns he watched the countryside pass by, and sometimes he had companions in his compartment who wished to talk, and though that didn’t happen often he enjoyed it when they did. He learned things from them. Most were not going as far as he was.

The train’s windows were lit by the afternoon sun when they finally began to pull into Prague. At some point, Combeferre’s heart had begun beating fast again; exhilaration, he realized, but he was feeling some trepidation, too. He was feeling every feeling at once, really. When they pulled to a stop, he leapt up for his bag, though he took the time to help an old lady with hers, too.

And then, there on the platform was Enjolras. Hale and healthy, recovered from any injuries he might have suffered. He was simply dressed, though he had an official cap; his hair unruly under it – as usual, he’d forgotten to get it cut. He was smiling quietly, and suddenly Combeferre was calm again as the two walked through the crowd to one another’s side.

There would be plenty of time to catch up now, plenty of time for words. They’d describe their wars, what they could of them, what they knew, what they’d understood later, and they’d pause and seek ways to explain the things that defied description, before realizing with a glance that they didn’t have to. Combeferre would catch him up on their friends back in France, and would tell him about Feuilly, who Enjolras would adore and who he had not yet met, and who, perhaps, if in some more time, assuming no new news, he did not wish to stay in France, they could find a reason to bring him to Czechoslovakia. Enjolras would have news of old acquaintances, and new friends too, and most of all, words about the progress they were making, the country they were building anew, of long-awaited dreams finally coming true.  In a few minutes, they would find a café a few doors away from the station, where they would sit down and begin to discuss it all. But for now, they simply gazed into each others’ faces. For a split second, Combeferre hesitated, then Enjolras wrapped an arm around his old friend’s shoulder.

They shared one more quiet smile, each reveling in this moment for which they had waited for so long.

 

-END-

 

 

[1] During WWII, Czechoslovakia was split into multiple territories – Slovakia became a nominally-independent client state of Nazi Germany, headed by Jozef Tiso.

[2] The principal reception center for concentration camp survivors returning to France.

[3] Lidice was a Czech village destroyed, its inhabitants almost all killed by the Nazis in June 1942, in reprisals for the assassination by the resistance of Reinhard Heydrich, top Nazi administer for Bohemia and Moravia. Oradour-sur-Glane was a French village, similarly destroyed in June of 1944, probably also in reprisals for resistance activity.


End file.
